


our missing days and nights

by wrabbit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comment Fic, Community: shkinkmeme, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, PTSD related depression, Prompt Fic, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-31
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:51:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/pseuds/wrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's mind is a puzzle lock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	our missing days and nights

A news article. A television commercial. An overly interested client. Even with some basic knowledge of John's career, his triggers were turning out to be impossible to predict. Even less predictable was what would put John in bed for what seemed like days at a time, sleeping through the nightmares and then rolling over and sleeping twelve hours more to forget them. It was, Sherlock predicted, going to be one of those nights, although as usual he had no idea why. He watched John out of the corner of his eye as he went through the list; His entire body seemed to pause in time for the barest moment, his pupils blew, his expression promptly shut down, he put his hand in his pocket to hide the trembling in his fingers and stood - perfectly steady, but too slow - and mumbled an excuse as he stepped out.

There was nothing about this particular murder that should have upset John out of half a dozen superficially similar others they had seen together in the past year and a half, but there it was. And there was nothing more infuriating than an unintelligible answer staring him in the face. The frustration of it thrummed under his skin.

Sherlock collapsed on the couch still fully dressed in his coat and scarf and listened for the sound of the shower starting. He always went for water first. Sherlock didn't think he was consciously aware of it, but once months ago John had shut down after being wheedled into a conversation with an old friend who turned out to be an anti-war activist, and John had promptly taken his coffee order over to a fountain and sat gazing into it for ten minutes. Now, he stood under their shower for fifteen, just enough time for the temperature to get unreliable. Sherlock waited to see if John would come downstairs. He didn't. The bedroom door opened and shut with barely a click.

He waited until a full two, likely eventful, REM cycles would have passed upstairs before setting down the violin, fingers itching and a headache brewing behind his eyes from restraining himself to the classics and thinking in circles around the man fighting a ghost war with his sheets upstairs.

Sherlock stood in the doorway for some minutes, watching John's ribcage rise and fall steadily as he slept with his face half smashed into the pillow, duvet tangled around his feet. John had not reacted well the last two times Sherlock had forced his way into his room after a bad episode. In fact, he had been furious to have been woken, but Sherlock couldn't help but think there must be an answer. Something put John into this, and something always pulled him out of it, eventually, and if he could only figure out what the trigger for either was.

He sat down on the bed when haunting the doorframe approached ridiculous, finding he really didn't care how angry John may or may not be to find him there. John, for his part, rolled over towards Sherlock automatically, fell deeply back asleep, and took a half hour to wake up enough to open his eyes. "Go away," he said decisively after a few minutes of sleepy staring.

"I don't want to wait another twenty four hours for you," Sherlock said and immediately rather wished he hadn't. In fact John had been asleep for four, and it would probably only be another nine before he woke up properly, but anywhere between immediately and an entire week after that before things went back to what usually passed as normal - at least to Sherlock's minutely discerning eyes. And then they would do it all over again on an upcoming occasion.

John's glare lost none of it's defensiveness. "Yeah, okay, I'm going back to sleep," he said and rubbed his face. Sherlock frowned has his left hand resting on the sheets was suddenly grabbed and squeezed.

"I wish you wouldn't," Sherlock tried.

John's lips quirked, eyes closed and half asleep already. "I don't care," he mumbled.

Sherlock caught himself yawning as John's hand slid out of his own. A frown line slowly formed on John's brow in his sleep and Sherlock sat on the floor and pillowed his head in his hands on the bed, letting his eyes fall shut. They would both wait it out, and maybe he would eventually clue into the thing that would figure this one out.


End file.
